Star Trek: Supernova
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Spock, and an unnamed woman (the reader?), are making love. I'm not sure if this is porn without plot or eroticism without plot, but it's something without plot.


It seems impossible that a pair of hands could be so beautiful. How can fingers look so strong and so delicate at the same time? How can they be capable of bending iron but also of tracing over lips and shivering skin with such tenderness? How can a man who is rumoured to be so cold have such heat in his hands?

Rumours are rumours, of course. Anyone with a basic knowledge of Vulcan anatomy knows that Vulcan blood runs hot. It would be an insanity for a warm-blooded creature to evolve with cool blood on a planet that reached such temperatures as did Vulcan. How could they have evolved intelligence if they were spending ninety percent of their time trying to stop their body temperature reaching dangerous levels?

Rumours are rumours, and touch is touch. Touch is truth. Anyone who had been touched by those hot hands, who had felt those hot fingers slipping over their belly and along their sides and into their most intimate places, would know that there is very little cold about Spock. Logic is not the same thing as a lack of care, and rationality is not the same thing as disdain. When Spock turns away from emotions it is because he is trying to process a situation without his judgement becoming clouded, but he is perfectly capable of embracing them when he is in a position that calls for something more forgiving.

So, fingers stroke down shivering skin, and lips touch collarbone, breastbone, flat, trembling belly, pubic mound. Fingers slip into slick clefts and lips follow, and the sound he makes – oh, the sound he makes is the sound of one who has just taken his first mouthful of his favourite dessert. It is a low rumble of gratification, and it sends sparks flying through loins, stomach, mind.

And his tongue is hot too. So hot is his tongue, such a swift, slipping, heated thing, so talented, so sensitive at finding just the right place, just the right place, and – oh – oh –

It is easy to lose all thought when a hot, hot tongue is down there, touching that place, stroking over that little nub and releasing – what? Endorphins? Adrenaline? Some magical potion of the body that he releases, some amazing thing that pushes away every last shred of vocal thought, every syllable of language, until you are lying, arching, pushing up to meet that heat every time it moves away, begging for its return, begging in wordless little whimpers for its return.

But two things he is master of are patience and restraint. He could resist begging no matter how desperate it became. He could hold himself back from pleasure for a year if it were required. And so he holds himself back, and no matter how sweetly you beg and how you tilt yourself back towards his mouth, he holds, and all you can feel is the heat of his breath and the slow drum of his heart against your leg and the silk warmth of his hands on your hips, holding you down, holding you still. There's no fighting against those hands. He could hold you down with two fingers, one on each side, and you would writhe and struggle, but those fingers wouldn't move.

But although rumours abound, he is not cruel and he is not without his own secret store of need. So he whispers, 'Shush. It will come,' and you believe him, and let yourself fall back to the bed, floor, ground, wherever it is that he has you, and you lie. You breathe in and you breathe out, and you feel the heat of his hands stroking your breasts, belly, legs.

And then he is leaning down over you, the whole length of him, and his lips are against yours again, and you taste yourself on his tongue and scent yourself in his breath, and as he kisses he guides with one hand a length of such heat and firmness into the centre of you that you forget that it is necessary for humans to breathe. As the heat and the hair of his chest brushes your breasts you forget that your lungs need to move. As his feet entwine over yours you forget that oxygen is a wonderful thing.

Then he says, 'Breathe,' and you breathe, thankful for his mercy, and you feel the heat of him so deep inside you. When he pulls back you cry, you beg again, and there is a laugh, such a deep, small laugh that hardly leaves his chest, because of course he is coming back, of course he is coming home. And he does. He fills you again, and again you forget about breath, because he is so hot and solid and heavy over you, and his lips are doing such wonderful things to your own while down there his heat enters and leaves, enters and leaves, as he rocks those slim hips and you touch the hard, flexing muscle of his behind and shiver at the power under your hands. There and back and there and back, and every now and then you breathe, but all other thoughts are leaving your head, you have become a creature of nothing but sensation and desire, and it is impossible to be so perfectly filled, but it is true, it is there, he is over you, skin dry against your slick sweat, lips murmuring into your ear, hips thrusting and thrusting until –

There is no world, no breath, no ground beneath your back. You are no body, just a spine and a wordless mind and a crescendo of pleasure that balloons, spreads, fills everything; a supernova erupting in silence and space.

 _Illogical_ , he would say, because orgasm is not a supernova and human and Vulcan bodies would be consumed were they found at its epicentre, but he has been there too, his own supernova has rushed through his body, and he is lying, spent, his weight dull over your body, his lungs drawing in air, his heart a thud in his side. The heat and hardness that entered you is growing soft and small, and his head is on its side against your own, his hair against your hair, his breaths hot and slow against your ear. His fingers are limp, his hands still, one on your shoulder, one with its fingers laced through your hair, fingertips pressed against your scalp. These hands of a scientist, hands of a worker, hands of a man of rationality and logic. You feel his pulse in his fingertips and his heat against your head, and you know that rumours are rumours, and there is no cold blood here at all.


End file.
